help it.  He is a nobody!  Sir Peter Fiddlesticks!  Who ever heard of him or his family, I should like to know, outside this ridiculous place?  His name is spelt wrong!  Of course I have heard of Crewys, K.C.  Everybody has heard of him.  That has nothing to do with it.  Yes, I know the young man did well in South Africa.  All our young men did well in South Africa.  Pray, is Sarah to marry them all?  If that is what she is after, the sooner I take it in hand the better.  Lunching by herself on the moors indeed!  No; I am not at all afraid of the ferry, Emily.  If you are, I will go alone, or take your good man.”

“The colonel is out shooting, as you know, and won’t be back till tea-time,” said Mrs. Hewel, becoming more and more flurried under this torrent of lively scolding.

“The colonel!  Why don’t you say Tom?  Colonel indeed!” said Lady Tintern.  “Very well, I shall go alone.”

But this Mrs. Hewel would by no means allow.  She reluctantly abandoned the effort to dissuade her aunt, put on her visiting things with as much speed as was possible to her, and finally accompanied her across the river to pay the proposed visit to Barracombe House.

Lady Mary received her visitors in the banqueting hall, an apartment which excited Lady Tintern’s warmest approval.  The old lady dated the oak carving in the hall, and in the yet more ancient library; named the artists of the various pictures; criticized the ceilings, and praised the windows.

Mrs. Hewel feared her outspokenness would offend Lady Mary, but she could perceive only pleasure and amusement in the face of her hostess, between whom and the worldly old woman there sprang up a friendliness that was almost instantaneous.

“And you are like a Cosway miniature yourself, my dear,” said Lady Tintern, peering out of her dark eyes at Lady Mary’s delicate white face.  “Eh—­the bright colouring must be a little faded—­all the Setouns have pretty complexions—­and carmine is a perishable tint, as we all know.”

“Sarah has a brilliant complexion,” struck in Mrs. Hewel, zealously endeavouring to distract her aunt from the personalities in which she preferred to indulge.

“Sarah looks like a milkmaid, my love,” said the old lady, who did not choose to be interrupted, “And when she can hunt as much as she wishes, and live the outdoor life she prefers, she will get the complexion of a boatwoman.”  She turned to Lady Mary with a gracious nod.  “But you may live out of doors with impunity.  Time seems to leave something better than colouring to a few Heaven-blessed women, who manage to escape wrinkles, and hardening, and crossness.  I am often cross, and so are younger folk than I; and your boy Peter—­though how he comes to be your boy I don’t know—­is very often cross too.”

“You have been very kind to Peter,” said Lady Mary, laughing.  “I am sorry you found him cross.”

“No; I was not kind to him.  I am not particularly fond of cross people,” said the old lady.  “It is Sarah who has been kind,” and she looked sharply again at Lady Mary.